


One Fell Swoop

by countessofbiscuit



Series: Let Me Count The Ways [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bedside Visits, Broken men, Dialogue, Duty & Devotion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hospitals, Pantora, Post-Episode: s01e22 Hostage Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: From: Senator Chuchi, Sujimis DelegationTo: CC-1010, Republic GuardSubject: Diplomatic Delivery ServiceCommander — thank you for conveying the well-wishes of the Guard. I have read them with pleasure many times over this morning.I am out of intensive care and continue to be well, in the circumstances. My room has become a sort of parlour for Pantorans. Yet none of these fine people have brought me anything worth reading or hearing. Jere has refused me my work datapad. I understand it’s still in my office. You have my permission to access it, and I would bemost gratefulif it might be couriered by way of a guardsman.I remain, Your Public Servant,R. Chuchi
Relationships: Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox
Series: Let Me Count The Ways [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866736
Comments: 16
Kudos: 162
Collections: Clone Wars Saved Exchange 2020





	One Fell Swoop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiend/gifts).



> Don't squint too hard at the space!medicine :p

The warrant historically granted to the House of Chen for Pantoran Plum textiles had expired. And for the first time in living memory, under the instruction of Chairman Papanoida, the Assembly had just granted it to someone else. 

This was of monumental import to Pantoran Executive Aide Jere Iggson and TriNeb News’ junior cultural correspondent Onya Choko — also Pantoran, and whatsmore, second cousin to the sitting Pantoran senator who’d just nearly been blown up. 

Though ostensibly come to visit her bedside, the two had thoughts for nothing else today, much to the senator’s dismay, groggy and bored as she was. Since being pulled from the bacta, it’d been nothing but a carousel of well-wishers, bringing flowers she could not smell and food she could not eat, punctuated by interludes of bad daytime programming and visits from the nurse-droid. Riyo Chuchi was beginning to wish Bane had finished the job. 

“Chen had the monopoly for too long,” Onya argued as she inspected the latest gifts on the side table. 

“Centuries of tradition” — Jere snapped his fingers — “broken by new-monied interest.” 

“You’re such a snob, Jere. It’s cheaper.”

“Because Chi & Torosan use _droids!_ Starsblood, forget the economy, it’s irreverent. And cheaper for whom? No one ever complained of the cost, and Chen will probably lobby for a wartime relief package now. So, hardly _cheaper,_ thank you very much.” 

Onya shrugged. “One factory cleared of people. A win in my book.” 

“Oh? Why don’t you ask them if they prefer basic income or Chen wages.” 

“They are free to do something else with their time.” 

“Right, ‘cause there’s _so_ much to do on Pantora.” Jere’s pride in Pantora was theoretical — you'd have to pay him to go back, as his contracted severance package attested. 

“Okay, Mister Patriotism — here’s a question. Why aren’t we sourcing raw textiles from the AgriCorps? Sustainably _and_ spiritually produced! And it would support the Jedi’s war efforts.”

Jere scoffed. “Don’t mention the Jedi. More tax-free operating income than the Hutts.”

“Don’t mention the _Hutts!_ ” Onya spared a worried glance at Riyo and must have noticed her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “ _Speaking_ of Jedi,” she crooned, continuing her improvement of the lupines and snowchains in the arrangement from Riyo’s parents. “I wish we knew who to thank for your rescue, at least. Do give us a name, dearest Riyo.” 

Riyo let herself yawn — a nervous tic, but excusable in a medcenter. “It's not likely to be made public.” General Skywalker might not have objected, but Padmé, shaken and therefore ferocious, had frogmarched the reporters off the Annex platforms better than the Senate Guard, and obtained a gag order over everyone present. This had twisted the Commons’ columns into knots of curiosity. 

“Only _imagine_ if the Jedi had not been there!” This had become Onya’s latest refrain. She shook her head, which was clearly full of overwrought thoughts. 

“Imagine if the Coruscant Guard _had_ been there,” Riyo countered, twining the thin bedsheet between her hands. “It wouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Perhaps this was a low blow: Onya had an on-again, off-again squeeze in the Senate Blues. But Riyo found irritability clinging to her like the stale, disinfectant smell of the medcenter. The Papanoidas had only just gone when her aide and her cousin had swept in for the umpteenth time, arm in chummy arm.

Onya didn’t appear to have heard. She’d spotted something in the hall and was angling herself awkwardly along the table to get a better look. 

“Is it the nurse-droid?” Jere asked, dropping his holozine. “I’ve only pressed the buzzer a hundred times.”

“No. Speak of the damned, Riyo.” Onya fell back on her heels, but said in her brassy, media-trained voice that might’ve carried ‘round the planet and echoed from the other side, “It’s a Corrie clone. A bigshot officer, by the looks of his skirt.” 

Riyo’s tummy flipped. Her body was too small for her, suddenly, as if someone had squeezed a big dump of happiness right into her veins. 

He’d twigged the code of her holomail and had come himself! Just as she'd hoped he would. 

“Oh! that will be Commander Fox,” she said, loudly to her own ears, hoping to reach him. At least Onya had been somewhat complimentary in her ignorance. Where had he been waiting? And for how long? 

Jere frowned. “Why is he here? More questions? Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” he demanded without any hint of irony. 

Riyo frowned back. “He saved my life in the past. I believe he’s entitled to see that I’m still whole. Please” — she flapped her hand officiously at Onya, perhaps even a little rudely, if she’d been in a mind to care — “bring him in.”

Onya beckoned more courteously, redeeming herself somewhat. 

Much to Riyo’s bottomless joy, it was indeed Commander Fox who stepped forward to fill the doorframe, helmet under his arm. 

He was just as she’d been assured. Hale and upright and ... and uncomfortably stiff. It wasn’t the datapad he was straining to hide behind his back. His eyes flitted among the company, like he’d been surprised to find Riyo not alone and still hadn’t warmed to the discovery, however long he’d been stalling outside.

Was he in a hurry and grown irritated with this silly errand? Riyo felt a brief pang of alarm. Her monitor almost betrayed it, before Fox’s gaze landed on her softly, his brows unbunching with a flicker of regard. He locked it down again and finally remembered to bow. “Senator Chuchi. I heard — I thought I’d stop by ... ”

Riyo saved him from having to front. “I’m so pleased you have, Commander. It’s been ages,” she boldly lied. “Please do sit down, if you have the time.”

Fox handled the datapad more naturally as he stepped into the room; it was one of thousands, after all, and shouldn’t draw Jere’s particular jealousy. But Fox did not sit. He stood barely at ease, clammed up, shifting his grip on his helmet. Never one for small talk, his reserve had only thickened in public, like he was afraid to thaw lest he crack altogether. And the looser they got behind the scenes, the tighter his act became. 

And he seemed unsettled by Onya — who’d returned to her fiddling, hopefully feeling the fool. He must have spotted the resemblance. Chokos and Chuchis were often confused on account of the tattoos and small noses, and Riyo should have warned him that she, too, had a clone. 

“Jere you know, and this is my cousin Onya,” Riyo addressed him, breaking the silence and clarifying things.

Now came the moment for one of her associates to be noble. Jere might have stayed forever; he was enjoying this indirect medical leave of absence. Light a fire under him — or threaten the supremacy of Pantoran diplomatic etiquette — and he’d halt glaciers with one hand and dash off memoranda with the other. But in his natural state, he was blasé and quite lazy. A protocol droid stuck on power-saving mode might do more. And as the galactic order of things said that Jere’s post was at his senator’s right hand, there he would remain, head buried in a ‘zine. 

Onya was not as impervious to social awkwardness. Or the quietly commanding presence of a clone officer. It finally twisted her neck. “Well! Back to work!” she chimed, leaving off fussing with the flowers. “Jere, I just _know_ your diplomatic speeder is making its way past the Commons.”

After many more “dearest Riyos” and much melodramatic pressing of hands, Onya finally left with a promise to return tomorrow and bully that poor nurse-droid into taking better care of her. Jere merely bowed. 

Riyo waited until their footsteps faded down the hall. Still, she only mouthed the words as she sank against the pillow in relief. _Thank the gods._

Fox grinned knowingly. A sheet of ice finally slipped from that warm mountain of a man. His eyes brimmed with an unmistakable affection that swept up Riyo's wonky spine. Here at last was her cure!

He closed the door with his elbow and came within arm’s reach to place her datapad on the bed. But he fell back just as silently, like he feared to breathe on her, and hugged his helmet to his plackart, his thumbs rubbing it in anxious, mechanical circles. 

Riyo looked longingly at him, begging with her eyes for him to come closer. “Would you like to sit?” she began, offering Jere’s vacated chair beside her. "There are no cams in here."

Many silent concerns played across his face. “Are these windows secure?” he asked suddenly, marching over to the transparisteel to examine the framing. Then, almost to himself, “I should have Thire audit the security.” 

“Umm, I did hear the warden say it’s triple-paned,” Riyo offered to his distraction.

She hadn’t been targeted _personally_ ; she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But in Fox’s profession, once was a crime and twice was more than a coincidence: it was a conspiracy. His apprehension was to be expected — and it was hard not feel flattered. Riyo had begun to consider Fox’s arms the safest place in the galaxy, though Central Med’s neurology unit could come a close second or third; the place seemed built for a siege and it’d be hell to fight one’s way out. But then again, _windows ..._

Fox's arm fell limp. Then, keeping his back to her, he dropped his helmet into the chair beside him, like he had not the strength to hold it. “Riyo. I — I can’t tell you how ...” His voice was throaty, a little wet, straining to be understood but not fully heard. “I’m so relieved you’re okay,” he croaked, shuddering and wrapping his skull in his big hands. 

If she hadn’t been on a drip and uncertain of her fitness, Riyo would've thrown herself across the room to embrace him, discretion be damned. Her sore breast clenched against a ballooning of emotion. She had no idea he’d been so affected. To see him upset, crumbling under the weight of something that had not came to pass, tore her to bits. 

She could only extend her arm, this time begging with words. “Oh, Fox. Please come here. Or I shall have to drag myself to you.” 

This the chivalric commander could not countenance. Fox untethered himself and hurried 'round to take Jere’s seat — but not before he’d flicked his kama out behind him. It was a small, quick gesture that Riyo secretly adored; it reminded her of holoromance heroes who didn’t usually play nice but knew how to sit on silk settees and woo ladies with unmatched gentleness. 

Fox sandwiched her hand with both of his, warmly. And though he tried to conceal them, the tears he’d checked brought out the amber in his eyes. 

“I must apologise for my cousin. She has the delicacy of a wampa sometimes,” Riyo began lightly. 

Fox snorted, squeezing her hand. “Don’t be. She’d make an excellent body-double. Not that I — ! I don’t mean to say ... ” He swore under his breath and ground his jaw. Then he appraised the bunches of flowers on the table with something like sadness. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you anything nicer.” 

Riyo was still tickled by the idea of Onya packing up her media career to become a silent handmaiden. “You’ve done me the greatest service,” she insisted, gawping at this ridiculous man who thought he could improve upon the gift of himself. “And I am so happy to see _you,_ Fox. I _wanted_ you to come.” 

He ducked his head, but not before Riyo caught the lift in his cheeks. “Wardens said I couldn’t come in. Looked me up and down and claimed you weren’t seeing visitors.”

“What a bunch of kark. Did you tell them you were here official business?”

“No. I just glared at them and swiped my chip. I could make myself a caf in their break room and they couldn’t stop me,” Fox said, warming to his theme. “But I did them the courtesy of giving my name and invited them to file any and all complaints about my conduct to the Sub-Committee for Clone Offenses up on level six.” He cracked a grin and ran a hand through his tight curls, as if to straighten his thoughts. “But then ... you had _actual_ visitors.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I'd known you'd arrived. I hope you weren’t waiting long.” 

Fox looked at her with a seriousness that was not stern — an earnestness that almost knocked her backwards. Thawing miserably indeed without his helmet. “You have nothing to be sorry for. _Nothing._ Do you understand?” And then he bowed his head, so she only heard the sniffles. “You were failed, Riyo.” 

She became aware of that space behind and between her eyes, filling sharply with unformed tears. Riyo had not been afraid for herself, exactly, sitting there on the atrium floor, bound by red strings of light; her dread had been for her parents, so far away, and for Fox, whose professionalism and personal regard would take it badly. 

She’d survived, and yet here he sat, swollen with distress and baseless self-recrimination. How could she best allay his pain? A kiss might not be enough. 

“Can I tell you what happened?” Riyo said softly, blinking with intent. “I fear your imagination has been upsetting you.” 

“Tell me.” 

So she did. As honestly and plainly as she could. 

How she’d marvelled that the Senate Guard didn’t rappel in from the ceiling — surely the Corries would have done so. (He confirmed this had been put to the Blueys, who were in the middle of a recce and pulling out the fastcutters when it all became moot.)

How Senator Organa had suffered third-degree burns to both hands and Senator Farr’s robes had caught fire upon accidentally touching the seared edge of the floor. (He expressed surprise that anyone wore non-retardant fabrics these days and was glad to hear she did not.) 

How she’d vomited her lunch and that she remembered exactly what it looked like, more vividly than she remembered anything else, down to the last chunk. (He suggested that was the concussion and the adrenaline.) 

How quickly Padmé had demanded medical treatment for her. (He very much approved of Senator Amidala.)

How oppressive it’d been to be fussed over, when all she’d really needed was seltzer to clean her mouth and something like the roaring air on the back of his bike — silly really, she’d been so giddy with the thought that she’d fainted. (He did not find this silly at all.) 

How she’d been dunked in a tank and could not write to him sooner. (He would not hear any apology.) 

Riyo even included the part about playing nursemaid to an unconscious Jedi, though here she withheld certain particulars. Like how she’d found General Skywalker handsome enough, but in the distant, artificial way of newscasters and religious iconography. If her pulse _had_ been racing, his head in her lap wasn’t the cause. At any rate, he’d only had eyes for Padmé, waking to her as if he’d dreamed her into existence. That alone — that easy, instinctual intimacy — had made Riyo shamefully jealous.

Fox bore it all with the practised equanimity of someone used to taking down grisly statements, saying at last, “Not that I’m not thankful he was there, but ... that was some fall.”

“I wish I’d had a jetpack.”

Fox gave her a smile. “That’s on my list.” 

“What is?”

“Teaching you how to use one. I’d feel better about taking you out on the bike.”

A warmth spread through Riyo. One that only answered to him. And she was glad he didn’t consider her too precious for future rides, for she'd be loath to order him. 

“What does the atrium look like?” she asked. 

“Horrific. Not as bad as the surrounding offices, though.”

Riyo winced and nodded. Three aides hadn’t had the sense to evacuate; it'd taken a while to identify their remains. Fox explained that the construction droids were making quick work of replacing the floor, and what columns and walls survived the blast were being stripped of their scabrous plasterwork. All the shattered gallery railings had been removed and replaced by tarpaulins.

“Jere tells me the Senate Preservation Committee is already at odds about the refurbishment,” Riyo said. “Some of them are even calling for _statues_ to be erected.”

“Of whom?”

“Everyone! Senator Philo, the aides, and the _brave_ survivors — though they’d use a generic Jedi likeness. What a notion! Gods know I shan’t agree to one.”

Fox cocked his head, kissable lips pursed. “I don’t know ...”

“What?”

“A marble Riyo would be a fine addition to the Senate. But nothing like the real thing.”

What stuff! The real thing was bare-faced and as pale and thin as ‘fresher fluid, wearing a plastic bag of a smock, and being drip-fed salts. 

Still, she could not temper her smile. “Tell me about the chase. I hear it went downbelow.” 

Fox’s face darkened and immediately Riyo regretted asking.

“It did.” He actually dropped her hand and fell back into his chair. “I said it in the after-action and I’ll say it again. The forceful pursuit was misguided — especially once the Chancellor handed primacy to the Jedi. The crew were heading off-world, no question. They couldn’t just ditch Ziro and speeder, he’s too fucking slow and obvious. Just keeping the heat on them was one thing. Keep them from going straight to ground and staying there. We could do that. Hells, even Senator Free Taa had the sense to pop a tracking beacon under the seat. If ATC lost them, which they would if they went downlevel, we’d know which port to storm.”

“What went wrong with the Jedi?”

“They just made it ... messy. Ironic, since I was ordered not to open fire. They cut the speeder off at the Portal, gave chase, and then got distracted trying to redirect the collateral damage. Don’t know what they expected to happen. They lost 'em. I was on the bike, so I kept on going.”

“How did it end?” 

“I was gaining on them in a service tunnel, but was ordered to stand down.” 

Riyo had a hard time imagining who could stop him. “The Jedi?”

Fox shook his head. “The Chancellor. I’d turned off comms, but he's got an override.” He polished some spots from his thigh plate with this thumb, adding quietly, “He was right to do it. But ... but I would’ve chased them into the Maw, you know.”

She didn’t doubt it, but to see him dwelling on revenge made her sad. Riyo reached out for him. “I’m glad you’re _here._ ”

Fox gathered her hand up again, scooting even closer. She wanted to tell him how safe she felt beside him, and the unseemly thrill it gave her — like when she’d taunt a blizzard by running naked through the greenhouse. The words weren’t yet ripe, though the feelings were. “I’m glad you’re here,” she repeated. “My parents haven’t been able to come.”

“Why not?”

“The Assembly didn’t deem it wise. Chuchis have all been classed as high-risk.” They still had no leads on the would-be assassin from months ago, and now she’d gone and humiliated the Trade Federation. Her parents didn’t merit a protection detail, and Fox didn’t have the authority to despatch a diplomatic escort, only to assign the guardsmen. She wouldn't even mention it, lest he feel himself a failure there, too. “Their travel visas have been temporarily frozen, even if they could get insurance to make it as far as the Mid-Rim. It’s too dangerous. I’ll have to wait until the recess.” 

“I’m sorry. Have you spoken to them?”

“Yes. It was the first thing I did out of the tank.” The next thing she’d done — after letting Onya make herself useful by tidying Riyo's nails — was read his message and contemplate how soon she might respectably respond. And how to make her request reasonable. 

“That’s good,” Fox said, caressing her knuckles. “When will you be discharged?”

“Not till Zhellday. My spinal realignment is tomorrow. Then two days of physio tests — to prove I can still dance, you know. And _more_ mandatory bedrest.” Riyo huffed and hugged his hands to her stomach, working herself up to voice her second request. “My collection hour is scheduled for four ... but I told the Embassy that, in the circumstances, I’d feel much better with a military escort.” 

Fox nodded firmly. “Without question. I can arrange that.” 

“I thank you ... and I was _also_ thinking — ” Riyo stopped. She was arrested by the tight weave of his glove, her head going a little swimmy to recall how it had felt between her bare thighs, wonderfully clumsy beneath her groin. Suddenly, what she wanted to ask seemed foolish. She had a dread of coming on too strong, of taking liberties where he had none. 

Well, if she regretted it later, she might blame it on her rattled brain. She blurted it out. “I was thinking that Choruk could pack the bike?”

At first, Riyo thought Fox was trying not to laugh at her. His strong brow cracked. He pressed the back of her hand against his mouth and a convulsion in his chest swelled to shake his shoulders. 

Then the tears fell out, and he could not fight them. 

Under ribs barely healed, Riyo's heart broke further still, his tenderness for her flooding into the cracks. “Oh, my dear Fox,” she whispered, carding his curls as he dried his face into the sheets against her waist, as close as he dared come.

In such manner — probably helped along by drugs the nurse-droid had finally brought — Riyo soothed herself into near-sleep. If she'd earned anything by her ordeal, it was to doze the days away until Fox could swoop her safely aloft, away from this grim place.

Once, she jerked to feel herself falling. But Fox was there to ground her. “Wherever you want to go, Riyo. I’ll take you there,” came his voice, warm and fuzzy like the tundra in summer. And with her hand in his, she finally sank into the weightlessness of dreams.


End file.
